It is terrifying this slightness.

Being slightly in love with you
frightens me terribly.
I am not a woman worthy of poetry
or songs or Polaroids taken and
taped on walls and refrigerator doors
–capable, fiery, nothing less than
a bundle of morning chatter. Warm
and lovely.

Nonetheless, you are.
You are worth
a thousand more.
You are nothing less than
a drink of sunlight or
a pocketful of memories
kissed by starlit skies.

Do not be slightly in
love with me too. The earth will
shatter underneath my toes
–the sharp remnants breaking
my eggshell of a heartbeat, the
spaces between my fingers will
start to beg for even a slight
smolder of your own –calloused
by strings, made lovely by
afternoon sips of tea.

I might be slightly –and
only slightly– in love with
the thought of you and
all the times you close your eyes
to nap for only a minute or two
but why am I am hearing God’s
whispers of tomorrows
flecked by pointless
unending conversations
that began in our growing list
of phenomenal yesterdays?

Why am I searching for your shadow
in my bookshelf and dreaming
of Decembers and Februarys? Why
am I whispering your name
like a prayer in the middle of the
day and biting my lip at the
thought of yours and yours
on mine?

I am slightly in love
with you or maybe
just maybe
much, much
terrifyingly and


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